Tag Archives: holidays

Are you tired of endless questions from your kids? Do you grind your teeth every time one of them asks you ‘where are we going?’? Or perhaps, after telling them where you are going, you are going hoarse from constantly answering the follow-up question of ‘Are we there yet?‘ Or maybe you just want a relief from the constant stream of gibberish questions that children emit, every second, of every minute, of every hour, of every day?

You could want respite from such quandaries as:

‘What’s a cow?’

‘Why aren’t we there yet?’

‘Why is that car there?’

‘Why are teeth?’

‘Why aren’t we there yet?’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Why can’t I drink some cola?’

‘Why aren’t you and mummy married?’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Why aren’t we there yet?’

‘Can I have some chocolate?’

‘Why can’t I have some chocolate?’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Why aren’t we there yet?’

And many, many, many, many more…well fear not, because Philco Industries have created the all new Stupid-Bloody-Questions-That-Children-Keep-Asking-And-Follow-Up-With-Even-More-Bloody-Stupid-Questions-Till-You-Start-Thinking-That-Being-Sectioned-Might-Be-A-Good-Thing-Dampener-Board (name subject to change).

Simply insert this board in the car, tell the kids ‘It’s to cover the holes in the fence that the cat keeps using to go next door‘ and then sit back and relax, as the questions are blocked out* and absorbed** by the reassuring 2 inches of wood.

This faux-limo-style separation between you and your darling, adorable, lovable but oh-so-bloody-annoying children, will mean that journeys will fly by***.

Nestled in the heart of Auvergne, in the Puy-de-Dome Department, is Saint-Floret, a small village of less than 300 inhabitants. Settling on this as our ‘base of operations’ for our holiday, we stayed at a lovely little three story refurbished maison. We knew we had made a great choice when we arrived and found our accommodation was situated right next to the river, meaning we would be able to fall asleep each night with the soothing sounds of the water lulling us into the land of nod.

Local amenities were scarce – there were just a couple of restaurants, which served decent grub at reasonable rates, and no supermarkets to speak of – however we were pleasantly surprised to discover the village came equipped with its own 24/7 bread-vending machine – something of a novelty to us Brits and meant that each morning could be started with a lovely, fresh baked repast.

There is a small playground within the village – no swings though! – so for families with small children you are guaranteed to have somewhere to go when you brood needs too unwind. Be advised though that the roads are quite narrow and traffic can sometimes go through at above the recommended speeds, so if you are coming with children then please be aware of this.

Sights within the village were outstanding, with the small windy alleys leading to treasures for the eyes, while venturing further afield led to even greater discoveries. Above the village lies the cemetery, with stunning views of the Saint-Floret and the surrounding area. A short walk – or drive if you have children – to the north of the village leads you to the ‘Tete de Lion’ an impressive, naturally formed rocky outcropping that is accessible via a not-too-challenging 1.3km circuit – this distance will allow you to see the Lion’s head and get you back to your starting point.

The aptly named ‘Tete de Lion’

All in all a great place to stay, possibly lacking in much in the way of excitement for the older children, however if you are a walker, a person with an interest in history, or simply someone who admires beautiful views then this is heartily recommended.

My son and I have a tradition. As he isn’t six yet it’s not exactly a longstanding one, but it is one I hope to enjoy with him for many years to come. On the last day of the long summer holidays we take a trip to Cleethorpes, in Yorkshire, and enjoy a day at Pleasure Island, a theme park. It’s not the most popular theme park in the UK, but therein lies its attraction.

Not for us the lengthy queue-times, or wallet-cripplingly high entrance fees, oh no. We get to enjoy a day of pretty much instantly going on any rides we like (and that my son is tall enough for) at a reasonable rate. OK, so some of the rides aren’t exactly top-of-the-range, but my son is young, and he doesn’t care.

So here for you are a selection of photos from our day out together.

(Oh, and in case you are wondering why my daughter isn’t with us, that’s because she’s in nursery. Take them both to the theme park? on my own? are you insane?).

The start of the day. A gloomy start, but we were lucky and the weather held off for the most part. We got there ten minutes before they opened, and my son managed to beat his personal best score of 110 utterances of the question ‘Is it open yet Daddy?’ in that space of time. New record is 121.

We always go on the peddaloes first, and the guy always tells us ‘stay away from the sides of the lake’ and my son always steers us into the sides of the lake.

Waiting for the train, it transports you around the park. It’s not an especially large park, but it’s a nice touch.

My son, who is quite timid as a rule, made me go on this. A log-flume like ride in a dark wet tunnel. I don’t like heights. Look at how high that thing is.

The obligatory cuddly toy. I got it from a ‘guaranteed win’ machine for £2. Took me ten minutes, he was very specific. Had to be brown. I was sweaty and aggressive by the time I finally grabbed the thing.

An Alpaca that, despite the warning signs, steadfastly refused to spit at my son. That would have made his day.

On the monorail. Giving us epic views of everything from 8 feet in the air.

This looks like Cape Canaveral (is that spelled right?) as opposed to a gloomy day in Cleethorpes.

Can’t go to the seaside without buying an ice cream.

Mr happy. He was put out because I didn’t want to lose more money playing games that you can’t win – where you have to knock down three tins – and thus meaning he wouldn’t be going home with a three-foot-tall Super Mario.

All smiles again.

The chap manning this ride was bereft of intelligence, wit, charm and, almost, his trousers, due to an unfortunate lack of belt. Seriously, I thought he’d wandered in from the set of Hot Fuzz (yarp!).

Go To The Toilet With Your 5-Year-Old Son While He Has A ‘Mega-poo’, And Close The Door.

The toilets on the Eurostar really are things of beauty. Small, perfectly formed and crammed with every essential item for the person in need while travelling at speed. The key word in that description is ‘small’. So, when your son lures you in with the promise of just going ‘number one’, only to upgrade it to ‘number two’ – after you’ve closed the door – there’s no escape.

The reek hits me, as I blindly fumble for the door lock, feeling sympathy for all those girls who are caught by the bad guy in films when they can’t open a simple door lock. I usually laugh at them. Who’s laughing now eh? My son, for one.

He looks at me with a huge smile on his face, his small, five-year-old body almost swallowed up by the comparitively huge toilet bowl. How can something so cute make such a hideous smell, I wonder to myself as I finally manage to open the door and stumble, eyes streaming, into the train compartment. It’s oily, it’s full of cars and it looks grim, but it’s nirvana compared to what I’ve just endured.

Don’t worry, I went back in to get him.

Thirty minutes later.

2. Change Your Daughter’s Nappy As The Train Arrives In The UK.

Bit of a no-brainer this one. If you can, do try and tell your 2-year-old daughter to have a dirty nappy ready at a more convenient time. Say two hours ago, when you had stopped for lunch. Or maybe just wait for another hour when you have another stop in the UK. This may not always bear fruit though, as 2-year-olds are not famous for their ability to fill their nappies at-your-convenience. Which is a shame.

So yes, here I am, with the French and English advice blaring away informing us that we will soon be entering the UK and blah-di-blah-di-blah. But I can’t concentrate on that as I’m struggling to wipe up a very messy nappy, on the front seat of the car. The clean nappy hides itself, the wipes come out in multiples of five, there’s faeces EVERYWHERE. Oh what joy. I hastily bundle darling daughter up and stuff her back in her seat.

I am beginning to suspect that my son and daughter are starting to co-ordinate their attacks…

It’s the Easter holidays and, like every year, we find ourselves in France visiting the in-laws. For those not ‘in the know’ – and I’ll be honest I’m not sure I’ve mentioned it in much detail – my other half is French. This means I get to make lots of people jealous at the fact that I, just a lad from Yorkshire, have a relatively exotic lady for a partner. It also means I get to holiday in France twice a year, soak up the culture and stuff my face with lots of cheese and other fine foods.

The holiday is generally broken up into two parts, due to the fact that her parents – like mine – are divorced. The first part we spend at Chez Mamy – my partner’s mother’s house – and the second, smaller part at her dad’s. Then after the jaunt to her dad’s it’s back to her mum’s for the final part of the holiday before the inevitable, and unwanted, return to the UK. Chez Mamy is in Aubigny Sur Nere, a beautiful little town tucked away in the French countryside. It’s small, but still has a bustling heart and busy main street, as you can see:

The town has all the things you need, pub, boulanger, patisserie, charcuterie and a variety of small shops selling all kinds of unique items. The village itself is also twinned (or jumilee as it’s called in France) with a Scottish town called Haddington. Sometimes the ‘Scots’ even make a special trip over, to acknowledge this fact:

It’s midway through the holiday and so we are settled in at her dad’s, in his rural retreat. His house is based near a beautiful town, called Charité sur Loire:

We spend more time at Mamy’s house than we do at ‘Papy’ Guy’s, so my knowledge of his home-town isn’t as extensive. Therefore I won’t be putting you through an exhaustively in-depth 1000-word description of his, like I did with hers. It is a stunning place though, and sights like this are commonplace:

Just five minutes by car from the main town finds us at Papy Guy’s house, in St Leger Le Petit. It’s a large converted farmhouse set within quite a few acres of land, with a variety of large outbuildings for the kids to entertain themselves in. Some of these are full of rusty farm machinery though, so a watchful eye is always needed.

The kids love it here, they have far more places to explore and, if the weather is fine, they can spend hours wandering the estate, discovering new and interesting things.

Then there’s the animals.

Papy Guy is the proud owner of two lovely animals (which is two more than we own) cat, Gabi, and a labrador called Fleur. The grounds of the farmhouse are still used for a variety of farming tasks, and it’s planting season. This means lots of work for Guy, and his partner Josiane, in the fields. During a walk myself,my son and Fleur encounter Josiane, busy shovelling manure onto the soil. She tells me something, pointing at the dog, and shaking her head. My French is ok, but try as I might, I can’t fully understand what she’s saying.

We complete our tour of the grounds and head back in for dinner, and it’s then that what Josiane was saying to me becomes apparent.

I take my place and tuck into my freshly-made bread, dipping it in some homemade mayonnaise. It’s then that the smell hits me. Is it the mayonnaise? I think to myself. has it gone bad? Surely not. The smell gains in strength, reaching a crescendo (can smells do that?) and I feel a nudge at my thigh. Fleur is resting her large head on my leg, looking deep into my eyes and imploring me to give her some bread. And it’s then that what was earlier lost-in-translation is now all too clear to my nose.

Fleur likes rolling in the horse manure, and then coming for a cuddle with yours truly.

How to broach this subject with the in-laws? Even if I was fully fluent in the lingo, how to mention this delicate matter? The simple answer is you can’t. You just have to do the British thing and suffer in silence.

And suffer I do.

I’m not sure know if it’s because I don’t pester her as much as the kids, or if it’s because I’ve given her treats in the past, but she favours me with her presence. Especially at meal times. I can’t full enjoy the delicious meals laid out in front of me, because they’re always, always, accompanied by that ‘freshly laid dump’ aroma from le-cheval.

We get to the end of the ‘Papy-segment’ of the holiday, and get ready to depart. It’s then that everyone begins to freely comment, about the reek coming from the dog. It seems everyone is aware of it, and everyone agrees – none more vociferously than I – that the dog needs a wash. All except Papy Guy himself, who says he can smell nothing untoward. But then he would say that, he constantly refers to her as ‘Ma fille’ (my daughter, in French). And what dad would admit that their daughter smells of horse-shit? Still, I hope he concedes and gives her a bath.

We’re going back in August, last summer it was very, very hot, and I dread to think what she’ll smell like by the time we arrive, if the situation isn’t remedied…

Leeds is a bustling city in the heart of Yorkshire, it has a vibrant market and is packed full of young business people eagerly working away to earn a crust. It is our destination for today and the following pictures should give you an insight into what we got up to and, if you’ve never been there before, Leeds itself.

Arriving in Leeds, bright eyes and bushy tails are the order of the – somewhat grey and damp – day.

My son here standing next to the ‘barrel man’, the container he wields has a high volume capacity. However it would still not be up to the task of containing the volume of alcohol I will consume, when this week is finally over.

Little did Lord Byron know, all those years ago, that his descendants would one day turn their backs on poetry and romanticism. Instead they would open up one of Leeds’ foremost burger establishments:

It’s a bit like Kirsten Dunst in Spiderman, is Leeds. Even when it’s wet there’s still a lot to look at, and enjoy. This comment is in no way influenced by those two pointy buildings. Ahem.

It was the great philosopher, Archimedes, who famously said: ‘In Leeds you’re never more that ten feet away from a rat, or a man trying to sell you a mobile-phone cover’.

The beautiful, grand old entrance to Leeds’ indoor market. A truly wonderful building, unlike the one in my own home town that has been demolished and replaced with what is, effectively, a giant shoe box.

It even smells of shoes.

So, you’ve got your lottery money from the government, but you’re just not sure what to spend it on. Well how about…a giant horse on a stick?

AND IT’S GOT WINGS!

Another, in a long line, of traitorous child incidents. Even after I told him that it wasn’t a ‘real’ mummy he still preferred its company to mine.

The world-famous Leeds’ fruit and veg stall. The sellers speak their own language ‘pee for a tannnnnn, onddd daaaaay a baaaaggggg!’ they cry to us as we pass them ‘Errnning twooo, four a pahhhhhh’ echoes the stall owner adjacent to them. Learned scholars have said, it is slightly easier to crack the Enigma code, than it is to understand what they are talking about.

Here, as it is second-hand market day, is a second-hand market stall. Buyers have been know to haggle with vendors for upwards of eight-hours, in an attempt to get a 5-pence reduction, on a yellow Mills and Boon romance novel.

The mysterious ‘stall of boxes’. Nobody has yet managed to get through the throng of people surrounding this stall, and seen what is in the boxes. It is rumoured that whoever looks inside the boxes will begin melting, and then explode. A bit like at the end of Indiana Jones and The Raiders Of The Lost Ark.

A money-back-guarantee, always instills faith when inscribed upon a piece of tatty cardboard…

Now far be it from me, to question the ‘high quality’ of jewellery for £2…

My son, patience worn thin, says ‘Can we leave this place now?’.

Allegedly, Prime Minister David Cameron’s favourite stall in Leeds…

As up-to-the-minute as most of Leeds is, there’s still the odd outdated piece of yesteryear to be found. Look at this Dreamcast poster for example. I loved my Dreamcast, sigh…

Here we have a very ambitious noodle bar, with sights set in the stratosphere. Why rip off one global fast-food retailer, when you can rip off two?

One of my treasured views: an empty pram, with two coats bundled on top of it. This means my children are somebody else’s problem for a while (they were visiting their mum at work).

It never ceases to amaze me, no matter where we go, no matter the environment or weather, my son ALWAYS manages to find a balloon.

Dinner time, it ain’t the most nutritiously balanced, organically-sourced meal ever, but I don’t have a job and it was cheap!

It’s an early start today, breakfast down the hatch (es) and then everyone is bundled into the car for the one-hour-or-so trip to Skipton, Yorkshire. It’s a leafy town set amidst rolling hills, with some quite breathtaking scenery. I’m not taking the kids just to admire the view though, oh no. As well as lovely scenery, Skipton is also home to two other items of particular interest: the kids’ godparents.

We roll up outside said godparents’ house and, before we even knock on the door, we are greeted by the godmother. We are quite lucky in our choice of godparents, particularly when it comes to school holidays. Godmother is a teacher, so it means you are guaranteed to be able to see her when school’s out. The godfather works in a cafe in the train station, and his hours are such that by just after dinnertime he is finished for the day.

This is great for me, as it means I get to ‘share the load’ and have help with the kids. We nip into chez godparents for a quick toilet break and then it’s off to the park.

My daughter, who I am primary care-giver to, soon switches her allegiances, and waves me away when I attempt to help her onto the swings. She points an imperious finger at godmother, and indicates that she would prefer her help getting onto the swings.

Godfather rings me up from the cafe while my traitorous daughter is swung merrily, and my son smears mud on the slide as he climbs up it the wrong way.

‘Where are you? I’m nearly finished at the cafe’ he says to me.

‘We’re in the park’ I tell him.

‘Great, I’ll be there in five minutes. I’m wearing a red coat’

I ponder this for a moment.

‘This isn’t a blind date’ I tell him ‘I do know what you look like’

But he’s hung up already.

He arrives shortly after, wearing a gloriously red coat, and we continue entertaining the kids for a while. Godmother takes her leave of us, and we arrange to meet back at basecamp. The sky turns gloomy so we decide to head into town. Skipton is a town with an abundance of affluent, elderly people and this has, for some reason, given rise to a surfeit of my drug of choice: charity shops.

They’re everywhere, and I take great pleasure in trailing our little convoy around them. They are staffed by well-to-do volunteers, who probably still pay more a year in taxes than the average person earns per year. They react poorly to the arrival of a child, a parent, a godfather and a child in a pram. They don’t know the first thing about ensuring their shops are pram friendly, my daughter exploits this fact to the full. Every shop we go in her little hands eagerly grab articles of clothing, hoping to take these age-inappropriate items back to her lair. She’d have gotten away with it too if it hadn’t have been for these pesky (god) parents.

It’s heading towards dinner time, so we head back to chez godparents. They have a lovely clean house, on three floors. It doesn’t stay clean for long. There’s soon cleaning up to be done on all but the highest floor, and daddy leaves a present in the toilet on that one that the godparents will enjoy later.

Godmother has brought provisions, and after a slap up lunch, she takes the kids outside to help her with a spot of gardening. The godfather and I recline upstairs in the lounge, supping coffee. We discuss the quality of the new James Bond theme (it’s poor), and put forward the hypothesis that sago is actually rice pudding’s evil brother. We ramble on like this for some time, just enjoying each other’s company. I enjoy the blissful lack of kids.

This brief nirvana doesn’t last and, realising I shouldn’t put too much strain on the parent-godparent relationship I venture outside. In scenes somewhat reminiscent of what I imagine a sweat-shop would be, I find godmother ruling over my two industriously working children. Leaves are being shovelled up, collected, and then tidied away, with disconcerting efficiency. The advantages of being a teacher, if not clear to me before, are crystal clear now.

We call it a day, the night is approaching and the kids, filthy, tired but happy are on their last legs. I shake hands with godfather and we agree to meet up again to catch SPECTRE at the cinema. Godmother apologises for the state of the kids, and gives me such a hug that I am left in no doubt that she, possibly more than the kids, has had a very good day.

There’s lots of babbling from the back of the car on the way home but it doesn’t last. Twenty miles into the journey and it’s just me and my thoughts. Oh, and Sam Smith on the radio, warbling about the writing on the wall. It really is a very bland song…

It’s the first day of the half-term holidays, keenly aware that being stuck indoors with my kids will make them devolve into wild animals, and also drive me insane, I have taken them out for the morning. There’s a variety of places we can go, as we live in a fairly rural area, but we settle on Newmillerdam, a picturesque lake set amid beautiful forests.

Also you can park for free if you know the good spots to dump your car, which I do.

We park up and get our gear out, trike for my daughter, and scooter for my son.

He’s not usually slow in deciding that the scooter bores him and he would, in fact, prefer to gambol amid the fallen leaves. Today is no exception. Setting a new, for him, record of 95 seconds, he proffers me the scooter ‘Don’t want my scooter’ he says to me. I sling it over my shoulder, being grateful that it’s not his bike, and we continue on our way.

My son rubs his finger over his right temple. ‘I’m scratching my skull daddy’ he says to me, as we walk though the arboretum, amid the fallen leaves of Autumn. ‘Inside my skull is my brain’ he adds, in case I was unaware of this fact.

He’s at an interesting stage, he’s coming up to five-years old and has stopped asking me questions all the time. Now he is telling me things all the time instead. I suspect this is down to him having just started school.

As if to reinforce this fact he brings our small caravan to a halt, as he informs me of why leaves fall from trees. A couple and their dogs pass us as he holds forth. ‘Half way through the tour’ I tell them ‘My son’s the tour guide’. They laugh politely and continue. You meet a lot of children people and dog people in this life. They were definitely dog people.

After about 45 minutes of pleasant strolling, I realise I need to empty my bladder. I manage to find a secluded spot, park the trike and head over to some welcoming undergrowth. As I’m halfway through my act something makes me turn my head. The trike my daughter is in has begun to move forward. I spin around spraying the shrubbery – and myself – and make a dash for her. There’s only a small step in front of her but it will be enough to tip her out.

I don’t need to worry though. My son’s already noticed and has stopped her in the nick of time.

We turn around and head back to the car. We pass people on the way back, they nod and smile. It’s amazing, I think to myself. If I was on my own I probably wouldn’t merit a glance, but add a couple of cute kids to the mix and everybody smiles.

It’s only after I put the kids in the car, and settle in my seat, that I notice the all-too-visible wet-spot, from the urinary-mishap earlier on.

Ah so, not smiling at the kids then were they….?

As an aside I will be noting, as the week goes on, how many people say hello when we are out walking, in environments that lend themselves to this. The art of exchanging a simple greeting is a dying one, which is a great pity.